


Cracks in the Veneer

by thesignsofserbia



Series: A Study in Nightmares [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Communication Failure, Dreams and Nightmares, Fever Dreams, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John Loves Sherlock, John is a Saint, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Empty Hearse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock-centric, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4019959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesignsofserbia/pseuds/thesignsofserbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not just maintaining appearances. He and John are back together in Baker Street and there’s nothing wrong with him, there is nothing wrong with either of them. Everything was fine.</p><p>In which Sherlock is just a little bit in denial.</p><p> </p><p>Stand alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cracks in the Veneer

**Author's Note:**

> Not directly related to 'A Cure For Insomnia' and 'A Study in Nightmares', but i felt they complimented one another nicely, so i put them together.

 

 

“Sherlock.”

  
_He’s afraid. God, he’s so scared but he doesn’t know why._

  
Someone is calling his name from somewhere. The voice is familiar.

  
“ _Sherlock_ ”

  
He’s more insistent now, oh, that’s where he knows the voice from; it’s John.

  
He opens his eyes and looks at him in the half light, John looks as frightened as he feels, and he still doesn’t have an explanation for it.

  
He’s in the middle of his bed, the sheets are crumpled and his hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, John is staring at him.

  
“God, Sherlock, you scared me.” John sighs.

  
He scared himself too.

  
He wonders what he did to scare John.

  
He must have been dreaming but he doesn’t remember the subject, it bothers him that he doesn’t know the source of his fear. He’s shaken by it though, whatever _it_ is; he’s starting to hyperventilate. What the hell is wrong with him?

  
John gets into the bed without warning, and gathers Sherlock to him like a child, which is odd but it should have been fine. He doesn’t know why (perhaps because he did not anticipate it), but this induces a further panic response and he struggles, forcing John away from him, ripping himself from his touch. It’s over in a few seconds leaving Sherlock holding a palm against John’s chest to ward him off.

  
Sherlock is just as surprised at his own actions as John, and there’s a stunned silence.

  
Sherlock deliberately calms himself down, breathing heavily into the pillow.

  
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I’ll go.” John decides and Sherlock shakes his head.

  
“It’s okay, I overreacted. You can stay…if you want.” His pulse is still significantly elevated and his voice is a bit breathy, as he attempts to analyse himself.

  
John’s not convinced that Sherlock’s okay and Sherlock doesn’t really blame him, they’re still at arm’s length and Sherlock isn’t exactly helping his case, even though he’s not actually lying, mostly.

  
“John it was nothing, I’m fine.”

  
“It didn’t look like nothing” John replies bluntly and Sherlock instinctively recoils, still skittish, it’s an almost imperceptible retreat and he’s kicking himself, but of course John picks up on it, he’s always been good at reading body language. Sherlock’s appalled, his transport is ignoring every command he makes and as a result he is thoroughly humiliating himself.

  
John looks like he’d been prepared for something terrible to happen, his gaze sweeps over Sherlock once more then flickers to the doorway. He knows John is thinking about his phone. It was on the kitchen table when John went to bed last night, the phone was there when he left for work this morning, and yes, it’s still there now. Sherlock hasn’t touched it. His coat and shoes haven’t moved either.

  
John looks at Sherlock for an explanation, as if waiting to be told that it was all for an experiment or that John’s missed something. He realises that John is waiting for him to produce something, something that will make it better and sweep it all under the rug, or any alternative to what he hoped wasn’t the truth.

  
They both know he’s been in bed for about 18 hours.

  
“I’m tired” Sherlock offers weakly. It’s not an excuse, he’s telling the truth though it’s unclear if John recognises that.

  
“Look, if you don’t feel comfortable, it’s okay. I just thought it might help.” John is starting to pull away, so he catches his shirt to slow him.

  
“You can stay,” John is still unconvinced and Sherlock needs to elaborate, shifting uncomfortably;

  
“I…I want you to stay,” He admits, grimacing.

  
John accepts this with a tight smile and settles himself in quickly and without argument, John works it so that they’re both on their sides facing opposite directions. They’re not touching, but John is close enough that Sherlock can feel the warmth radiating off of him easily, even through his shirt. He hadn’t realised how cold he’d been, maybe the heating needed fixing.

  
John always knows what Sherlock needs from him without being told. He can relax.

  
“So what was that?” John asks after a while.

  
“I’m not sure.”

   
~

   
“Sherlock?”

  
He could do little else but curl up in bed and try to wait it out, with his arms clenched ineffectually around himself.

  
The trauma had been long ago, but very extensive, and he’d been rushed into the theatre for emergency surgery in a bid to get the internal bleeding under control and address the pneumothorax. His doctors had been forced to remove the part of his liver that had mangled itself beyond recognition.

  
Unfortunately, they’d also had no choice but to perform a partial splenectomy. This meant he’ll have a lot of antibiotics and periodical injections to look forward to in his foreseeable future, possibly for the rest of his life, just to make sure his immune system doesn’t decide to give up on him completely.

  
That would be a perfect way to die; Sherlock Holmes, beaten by the common cold.

 

 

However there was also a side effect of the surgery that his doctor’s _couldn’t_ explain. He’d recovered more thoroughly than any of their insulting expectations had predicted, but that didn’t seem to lessen the occurrence of the severe abdominal cramps that brought him to his knees on a whim.

  
It wasn’t one of the typical symptoms on the list apparently and they’d told him there was nothing to be done; it was a medical mystery. In his experience that meant they didn’t know what they were and it was too much effort to investigate it further. Why should they? They weren’t the ones who had to live with them.

  
He’d fired one of these so-called medical professionals on the spot for implying that it was simply stress. If he’d been able to stand at the time, the imbecile would have lost more than his job.

  
He had been dimly aware of John moving around in the bathroom next door and had evidently alerted him to the fact that something wasn’t quite right. John was drawn to Sherlock’s discomfort like a shark to blood, rushing to Sherlock side and scanning him with a trained eye, seeking out the wound he was anticipating.

  
“I’m not injured,” he groaned, refusing to comply with John’s efforts to examine him.

  
“Sherlock tell me what you need, I won’t be able to treat you if you don’t talk to me; tell me what’s wrong.”

  
He _was_ talking to him damn it, well, he was trying.

  
“You can’t. Just muscle cramps,” he ground out through gritted teeth as another wave seized him.

  
But John’s medical training had taken over and he kept asking things, trying to get a proper look at him as Sherlock kept yanking the duvet back up again, John had often complained that he was the worst patient he’d ever had.

  
“I need to check for bloating, rigidity, tenderness, I don’t need to tell you that if its appendicitis and it’s far enough along; you could be in trouble,” John implored more urgently.

  
“’s not.” Of course it wasn’t appendicitis, had he not _just said_ it was cramping? Why did doctors ask so many questions, but never listen to the answers?

  
“You can’t know that for sure, I’m a bloody doctor Sherlock, will you stop that?!” John was really keyed up now and he wasn’t behaving logically.

   
“ _Fuck off_ John!”

  
That got his attention; Sherlock rarely swore, and never at his blogger.

  
He was in too much pain for this shit right now, just concentrating on staying quiet was hard enough, and he didn’t have the energy to explain himself properly, even if he’d wanted to.

  
The bindings of John’s Hippocratic Oath were at war with his sense of duty to respect patient consent, which was especially difficult for John when it came to Sherlock. There hadn’t been much time to worry about red tape in the desert, of this Sherlock had no doubt, John had simply treated every patient without hesitation to the best of his abilities, no matter the situation. Restrictions like this didn’t exist on the battlefield.

  
But this wasn’t the bloody battlefield, it was Sherlock’s bedroom, and there was nothing wrong with Sherlock’s health, so why did John look like he’d just had a massive caffeine hit? Adrenaline junkie indeed.

  
“It’s just cramps, I promise,” Sherlock implored. _Stand down captain_. “It will pass.”

  
“It’s happened before then?”

  
John was frowning at him, searching his memory for signs that he’d missed; evidence of when it may have occurred previously, right under his nose. He would inevitably draw a blank.

  
“You could say that,” he mumbled.

  
He thought he was dying, the first time, when he hadn’t known what was happening. He was convinced that the surgeons had missed something and that he was going into septic shock, he’d nearly frightened his brother into having a heart attack. His antics would surely send Mycroft to an early grave one day if the oaf didn’t learn the meaning of the word exercise.

  
John is still worried but he’s come back to his senses at least.

  
“It’s not that I don’t believe you, but you do have a habit of playing down the serious stuff, no; shut up. You know you do. Git. And quite frankly; I’ve seen you get _stabbed,_ two inches deep, in a back alley, with a fucking _letter opener_ , and you weren’t in half as much pain as you are now.” John was scowling at him with his arms folded.

  
He had no idea how right he was, and that suddenly that’s incredibly amusing, Sherlock had endured much worse than this, far more than a letter opener in the thigh, and John didn’t know the half of it. Giggling might not have been the best response to convince John that he was alright.

  
Sherlock was impressed by John’s argument, maybe even a bit proud. 99% of the time he would have been spot on; that was exactly Sherlock’s MO; pretending he was fine until they got home so he could avoid a trip to A&E, he would rather John be the one to patch him up and hospitals were tedious. But alas, somehow he always managed to get the wrong end of the stick, because this time Sherlock really _was_ okay.

  
John grudgingly lets him have his way, respecting Sherlock’s wishes but he does not budge, staying at his side, monitoring Sherlock to make sure that he’s not getting worse, and he thankfully keeps the fussing to a minimum. John’s lips and pursed and his knuckles are white. Sherlock’s stomach rolls warningly.

  
“Going to be sick then?”

  
“Quite possibly.”

  
Sherlock does not deserve a minute of this man’s time, but he wasn’t sure he was even capable of functioning at full capacity without him anymore. He’d made his peace with the knowledge that he never wanted to be without John Watson again.

  
Preferably they’ll retire together, somewhere in Sussex he thinks, either that or they’ll go out together when a case goes wrong and they are the only two possibilities he’ll accept.

  
Sherlock has no intention of letting his blogger go a second time.

  
John was keeping a vigil, which was utterly ridiculous over a grown man suffering a bit of cramping, but John’s conscience would never let him leave an incapacitated Sherlock to fend for himself, no matter how mild his affliction.

  
Sherlock soaks up what affection he can get. After so long it’s nice to be reminded that someone still gave a damn about him, someone other than his insufferable brother.

   
~

   
“Sherlock”

  
He looks up briefly towards John’s outline in the doorway from his spot on the sofa. It’s late, much later than the time John usually goes to bed when he has work in the morning. He should be able to deduce why, but he’s tired. John looks worried. Sherlock has had quite enough of John worrying about him.

  
Granted, everything does appear to be slightly garbled, as time sort of blurs together but he’s perfectly alright.

  
He’s constantly busy, constantly moving. He’s solving cold case after cold case, so quickly and efficiently that he’s sure it’s a personal best, he stares at files, his laptop screen and hundreds of gruesome crime scene photos for hours without blinking. His eyes feel gritty and are rimmed with red.

  
Sometimes he’ll just arrive in a room with no recollection of actually travelling there. He’s desperate to keep himself occupied and he might be behaving a bit strangely, maybe he’s a little manic, perhaps too focussed, all his attention dedicated to the current task.

  
“Sherlock?”

  
He doesn’t remember the days clearly or even as separate entities; he only knows what’s in the present, his brain only keeping what is vital in that moment. The rest just flows through; he doesn’t even have to delete it because he doesn’t retain any of the unnecessary information in the first place. His fingers feel clumsy and slow, like when it’s cold and they go a bit numb, which is endlessly frustrating because he needs them to keep up with him and stop twitching like that.

  
He feels vaguely dazed, and a bit like he’s forgotten something. His transport is a bit heavy, but his mind is exceptionally alert. It’s definitely off kilter though, he feels out of phase with the world, but he can ignore that, the world never could match his velocity.

  
He has a lot to do.

  
He listens to the radio, watches the television and plays the violin all at the same time to experiment on his levels of concentration, recall, sensory intake, and ability to multitask, and of course he excels.

  
He accumulates 31 pairs of mud coated trainers from suspects’ houses (it’s been a while since he got to put his house-breaking abilities to the test), subjecting them to extreme scrutiny to discount an alibi.

  
Why is it so cold in here?

  
He re-establishes his prowess in the art of extreme escapology; blindfolded. He builds a makeshift taser just to see if he can (and he absolutely can); ‘ _We’re going to need a new toaster.’_ Mrs Hudson does not approve of his archery practise. Nothing holds his attention for long enough.  


His head won’t stop hurting which is a bit of a drawback, and everyone is noticeably more moronic that usual, interrupting him with the most trivial of things. His annoyance with them is building exponentially.

  
Just keeping himself occupied is exhausting but he’s accomplished more in the past few… _recently_ , than a normal person would in a month, his neurons are constantly firing, give him work, give him problems to solve!

  
_He’s doing well, he’s doing well, he’s doing well, he’s doing well, he’s doing well. He is doing well._

  
Admittedly he hasn’t slept in a while, but it’s of no consequence, it’s not that he _can’t_ sleep exactly; it’s that it’s not satisfying, he always wakes up more tired than he was when he started, so he doesn’t bother.

  
Besides, recently waking up has been infuriatingly difficult if he does sleep. He wants to get up, he does, but he seems to be incapable of keeping his mind online long enough to wake up properly… for the first 5 or 6 tries. But that’s not a problem if he doesn’t sleep.

  
He’s fine. He’s not sliding backwards.

  
“Sherlock, are you listening to me?”

  
If he’s not engrossed in something, anything, then there are far too many hours in the day and he feels useless. Being idle is unbearable and it lets the pointlessness of it all saturate him, to paralyse and sedate him. Being stationary gives him too many opportunities to dwell on the past, to remember, and to notice things.

  
Things like the extra grey hairs on John’s head, the increased number and depth of wrinkles, that not-quite-okay look in his eyes that still won’t go away. Things that Sherlock is responsible for.

  
If he is too busy to see, then he can’t observe. And he was; he’s far too busy.

  
He’s not just maintaining appearances. He and John are back together in Baker Street and there’s nothing wrong with him, there is nothing wrong with either of them. Everything was fine.

  
He’s much better. It’s not going to be like it was at Mycroft’s, straight after…

  
He entertains himself by subtly moving things around the flat to confuse John and test his observational skills. They clearly aren’t up to par as he doesn’t have a clue that Sherlock is responsible when things are not quite where they should be and John’s bewilderment has the added bonus of being hilarious.

  
He wonders if Mrs Hudson would notice if he established a beehive on the roof, apiary had always been a fascinating subject, bees were such wonderfully complex creatures.

  
“Damn it Sherlock!”

  
Oh for god’s sake what did he want now? Couldn’t he see Sherlock was in the middle of a vital experiment on…on…Why couldn’t he just leave him alone for five fucking seconds?

  
Sherlock snaps.

  
“ _What?!”_ he snarls, turning on his flatmate violently, “What do you want from me? What more could I _possibly_ give you?” He’s fed up, he’s sick of John, he’s sick of everyone and he wants to be left alone; indefinitely.

  
“I…”

  
John doesn’t have a response for the unexpected amount of venom Sherlock spat at him, he wasn’t expecting Sherlock to blow up and he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, John’s hurt.

  
Sherlock becomes aware of himself staring John down aggressively, when had he gotten to his feet? He slowly sinks down on the sofa, sagging back into the soft leather.

  
He knows immediately that he’s screwed up and the remorse twists vengefully in his gut.

  
He’s said too much as well, never mind having shouted abuse, far more than he intended to say and he hopes John doesn’t read into it any further. He pinches the bridge of his nose, scrunching his eyes up in pain, his headache threatening to become a migraine.

  
_Damage control._

  
“John. That was uncalled for. I apologise. Please forget it, I didn’t mean…that is to say I never intended…I haven’t slept in, er…”

  
“Four days” John supplies humourlessly. He’s not angry but exasperated, he appears… haggard, actually and a bit run down, maybe watching Sherlock these last few days had been just as exhausting for John.

  
“Yes. That,” he gestures ambiguously in acknowledgement, “I’m just tired, you’re right, I should get some sleep.”

  
He gets up a tad unsteadily and begins a rapid retreat to his bedroom but just as he thinks he’s safe, John stops him quietly;

  
“What did you mean ‘what _more_ ’? You weren’t just mumbling because you’re sleep-deprived,” John’s voice soft but assured.

  
Why did he always choose the worst imaginable times to decide to be observant? Although he supposed that John had always been remarkably perceptive when it came to reading Sherlock.

  
He sighs.

  
“Leave it John, it’s not important,” he mutters wearily.

  
He knows that John’s not buying it for a moment, but Sherlock is extremely grateful (and surprised) that he lets it drop with just a;

  
“Goodnight then.”

  
And Sherlock shuffles down the hall, locking his bedroom door behind him.

   
~

   
“Sherlock”

  
“Wake up Sherlock.”

  
_His arm snaps like a twig, severing nerves, splintering bone and cutting through muscle, skin, tendons and vital blood vessels. Every cell that made up the limb is on fire, his blood was boiling in his veins and the remaining shreds of muscle are wasting away as his skin is incinerated. Blinding agony consumes him and he is losing himself._  


“Sherlock _please_ , wake up.”

  
And then just like that he is awake, and John is abruptly there gaping at him, extremely distressed by whatever he’s just witnessed. He whispers Sherlock’s name, expressing a ridiculous amount of angst in that one word.

  
“Fine. I’m fine,” He insists though he doesn’t sound it, probably because it's a blatant lie, and his voice cracks slightly at the end, maybe John won’t notice. He notices.

  
He’s clutching at the collar of his own t-shirt with his left hand like a small child, his right arm limp and useless. Perhaps it would have been kinder if they’d amputated it.

  
The arm is perfectly functional, yet he often can’t shake the idea that the arm is weaker than it is. He favours his left arm sometimes now, when he fears it will buckle, if it feels weak, trembles or aches. He is angry when he catches himself doing it without having decided to.

  
He’s ambidextrous, though not by birth (he’d spent a solid 4 years aged 8-12 laboriously working at it) but he has always favoured his naturally dominant right hand, being able to use the left just as well was just a useful skill he’d acquired.

  
Lestrade looks at him strangely when he signs his name on police documents with his left hand without thinking.

  
When he feels that he lacks the physical stamina in the arm (he doesn’t), then he truly understands John’s hatred of his psychosomatic limp, more than just theoretically. He understands the indignity of the betrayal from his own body, worse; his mind. He feels the frustration of knowing that it isn’t real, logically he knows that there is nothing wrong with him.

  
But there _is_.

  
He’s uncertain what to do about John’s presence here, he doesn’t want to talk about it but he’s torn over whether or not he wants John to comfort him. Normally he’d shoo him off dismissively without a thought, but then normally this situation would never have occurred. He doesn’t know if he wants John to go, he wants to be alone, but at the same time doesn’t want to watch John turn his back and leave him.

  
It’s John who makes up his mind for him.

  
“You know; it’s okay not to be fine.” John’s using his gentle Trustworthy-Doctor voice and although he doesn’t mean it to be, it’s awfully condescending.

  
_Shut up John. Just shut the fuck up right now._

  
But John doesn’t stop talking; instead he insults Sherlock by saying the worst thing possible.

  
“Look, I know you don’t think so, but talking to someone can actually be very helpful.”

  
_Was John actually suggesting what he thinks he is? A psychologist? Because if he was…_

  
“Who knows? Therapy might be-”

  
“Get out.” He articulates every syllable.

  
John goes to argue. And Sherlock’s anger superheats and explodes.

  
“GET. OUT.” Sherlock roars, loud enough to wake the entire street, a little caught off guard by the ferocity of his own reaction. John gets the message.

  
He actually looks hesitant; John is just a tiny bit… afraid; afraid of _Sherlock_.

  
John had always known what sort of man he is, he’d seen him willingly follow a serial killer, not care about casualties or victims, seen Sherlock throw a man out of a window without hesitation, attempt to deliberately expose John to a dangerous chemical, and then go and fake his death for two years. He’d never been afraid before, but he’d never experienced the full force of Sherlock’s wrath before either.

  
“Alright,” he placates him as he slips out, holding his palms in front of him in surrender.

  
John didn’t make any sudden movements during his departure, trying not to provoke him further, as if it were even remotely possible that Sherlock could ever hurt him.

   
~

   
“Oh Sherlock,”

  
John’s voice oozed sympathy but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed.

  
Sherlock is sick. Sherlock hasn’t been this sick (infected wounds do not count) for _years_. It’s a bad cold, but it’s just a cold, a mild flu at most.

  
But Sherlock is still _really_ sick.

  
He compiles a list of every insult and bad word he can think of and directs them in a constant stream at whatever is left of his spleen.

  
He should probably warn John about just how dire the consequences would be if he developed a chest infection. It was doubtful the repair job on his right lung could withstand it and Mycroft would throw him in the bloody hospital at the slightest cough for weeks afterwards.

  
John Watson is loyal and unfailing; he’s bedrock.

  
All of Sherlock’s defences are levelled, and physically he couldn’t even win a fight with a cat at this point. A domesticated cat.

  
Sherlock is going to have to think of something _really_ good if he’s ever going to have a hope of trying to repay John for this.

  
John fusses like he’s Sherlock’s mother and he’s glad that Mrs Hudson’s not around to see it... or join in. He doesn’t mind Johns ministrations, has no power left in him to resist accepting his friend’s help.

  
It’s pathetic and deplorable, he’s bursting with self-loathing and contempt at his own inability to accomplish even the simplest of tasks, he’s a grown man, he’s a genius, he’s The World’s Only Consulting Detective, but what good is he now?

  
He’s nothing.

  
Sherlock can’t keep down anything for 17 hours straight, not even tap water, until every single energy source he has is depleted.

  
John is calm and he knows exactly what to do, and he has the situation under control. But the way Sherlock’s behaving is so wrong, so uncharacteristic, it must be baffling for John; that the mild thing he’d picked up at the clinic that was just annoying for a few days and that should have just made Sherlock grumpy and immobile for a week was causing this much havoc.

  
The situation is so unusual that despite the fact that John can handle it, Sherlock knows he must be on the verge of calling for help…or at least calling Mycroft to demand answers.

  
_Oh please don’t let him do that._

 _  
_ Sherlock is unusually…affectionate (he is _not_ cuddly) and John takes it in his stride and kindly humours him as Sherlock leans heavily on John for support, physically and emotionally.

  
The room starts spinning every time he closes his eyes, which is just plain rude and he wishes it wouldn’t because he’s exhausted.

  
For the first time in a very, very long time, Sherlock finds himself in need; he’s incapable of taking care of himself, which would still be mortifying if he could find the strength to give a damn.

  
It stops being something to feel ashamed of pretty quickly, both from an outside perspective and to him, as he loses the ability to care what he looks like and things fast become critical.

  
He’s so cold, he can feel the frost in his bones and he can’t stop shaking, so why is John telling him needs to cool down? He’s not overheating; his teeth are chattering, loudly. Why is John _lying_ to him?!

  
The walls in the hallway are moving; they’re pulsing and writhing in disturbing wave patterns, like a distorted simulation of breathing. Walls shouldn’t breathe, and they’re screaming with far more anguish than wallpaper has any right to, or maybe that’s him? Someone is anyway and it’s horrible. What if it’s _John_ who is making those hopeless wailing noises?! He didn’t want to think about that possibility.

  
And then it’s silent, the sort of tense silence where you’d have known that there’d just been an abrupt change in volume, even if you hadn’t been present to hear it. He doesn’t like it, but it’s a huge improvement because at least those tortured screams have stopped.

  
The walls are still again and they’re calm enough that he concludes it mustn’t have been them screaming after all, they’d just been upset by the noise and (even if the breathing thing was still very suspicious) he couldn’t blame them for that. It couldn’t have been him screaming either, because his voice (which had been fine a moment ago) is gone, his throat is hurting so much he thinks it might be bleeding and he can’t rasp a single word never mind anything else. And it certainly wasn’t John who’d been screaming because Sherlock’s forearm is currently crushing his trachea…

  
_NO!_  


He hurls himself backwards and away from John with as much force as he can manage and slams in to the other side of the hall, crumpling as John also slides down to the floor. And for a moment John’s still. He’s not moving.

  
_Breathe. John, you have to Breathe!_

  
John starts coughing and gasping for oxygen frantically, Sherlock drags himself over to him, fingers curling like talons into John’s jumper holding on like a man possessed, entirely discombobulated. He hasn’t a clue how any of this happened but John could have died and he can’t cope with that

Sherlock holds his breath until John is breathing steadily once more.

  
They’re in a heap on the floor and he feels like he might explode. John is telling him over and over again that he’s alright in a voice so rough and choked that it’s unrecognisable. Sherlock nearly killed him. John had nearly ceased to exist from this world, by Sherlock’s hand.

  
And he’s forgotten something. John’s shaking him, there’s something he has to do but he can’t focus.

  
Oh yes, that’s it; he has to inhale.

   
Sherlock blacks out.

  
Later when it’s better and he’s no longer in a dimension where it would be even remotely possible for him to kill John (and it must have been a different dimension because he’d rather allow himself to be flayed alive than lay a hand on him, he would never do anything to John, never, he couldn’t accept it, it hadn’t been real) John says he’s pleased that Mrs Hudson wasn’t here to hear all the shouting. She’d have probably called the police.

  
John doesn’t answer when Sherlock asks who was screaming; instead he stares at him for a very long time without saying anything. He wonders if they’re hurt, and John takes his temperature again.

  
John should stop looking at that thermometer so frequently if it bothers him so much.

  
He has a moment of clarity when he realises he’s burning up and John’s face tells him he’s in danger, but it’s over as quickly as it came. It’s just a bit of a cold, he’ll sleep it off.

  
One minute everything is fine because they’re on the sofa in Sherlock’s nest of blankets and John is reading to him, he’s telling him stories of pirates. Sherlock can hear the sound of paws dancing on the hardwood floor, running playful circles around them, and he’s smiling.

  
Then he’s in the bathroom. How did he get here? Where did Redbeard go? Then he remembers; Redbeard is dead.

  
The bath is full and the water is taunting him, he wants to run he can’t stop staring at it and it’s pulling him in by his eyes.

  
He’s cold. He’s had enough now. He wants to go home.

  
There’s a voice asking him politely (he’s not fooled by their mind games) to take off his trousers. He won’t. Oh please not the water, the water is always freezing, anything but that.

  
He’s so cold. Someone tries to shift him closer to the water, they lay a hand on the back of his neck and he balks.

  
He remembers the feel of a different hand there (or maybe it was the same?), pushing his face down, restraining him and submerging his head and shoulders until he starts to suffocate. He’ll never tell them anything. It’s happening all over again. He’s going to drown.

  
_no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no_

  
He must have blacked out again because he’s not in the bathroom anymore and he definitely hasn’t been bathed (or water-boarded for that matter), he’s in bed and someone has piled wet towels on top of his pyjamas, he feels warm. John however _is_ in the bathroom and Sherlock thinks he can hear him crying faintly as sleep consumes him.

 

  
“John?” he chokes out and of course he’s right there, every time.

  
John sleeps on the couch in case Sherlock needs him in the night; John wraps him up tight when he’s shivering, simultaneously managing to keep his core temperature down. John stops him from choking on his own vomit when he’s struggling to breathe and gripping the toilet bowl like a vice, John allows Sherlock to collapse into him when it’s too much. John says that he knows when Sherlock tells him he can’t take it anymore, John says that’s okay, says he’ll help him and they’ll get through it anyway. John forces nutrients on him when he needs them most but doesn’t want them; he catches him when his legs are too weak to support him, and helps him get around. John sits with him all night, stroking his hair as Sherlock dry-heaves and cries.

  
John is there the whole time; he doesn’t leave the flat until Sherlock is completely recovered.

  
John Watson is the only human being on the planet who he trusts this completely.

   
~

  
“Sherlock,”

  
John drew his attention from the write up on his website about the 31 pairs of muddy shoes. It was about time. John had been contemplating him over the top of whatever inane fiction he was currently reading all evening, deciding whether or not to ask him a question. It was painful watching his thought processes, plus Sherlock was curious.

  
“Mmm?”

  
“You’ve been having nightmares a lot recently.” It wasn’t a question and Sherlock probably looked like a deer caught in the headlights of a road-train, as the comment came seemingly from nowhere.

  
John rolled his eyes at him.

  
“Oh come off it Sherlock, of course I noticed, I’m the doctor with the psychosomatic limp remember?”

  
Sherlock contemplated him for a while before nodding slowly in concession, why he’d assumed John would be oblivious he didn’t know; perhaps the sleep deprivation had done permanent damage.

  
“You never used to,” John continues his habit of stating out the obvious.

  
“No,” Sherlock agrees, there’s no point denying it, and he’s not cross, but that doesn’t mean he has to offer any information freely.

  
John was surely wondering what had changed.

  
“What happened?” It was an intelligent question; one Sherlock had no intention of answering.

  
“You don’t want to know.” There was nothing good to be had from talking about Sherlock’s time away and John would surely blame himself for parts of it, though he had no reason to.

  
John sighed, he actually _did_ want to know, John, like him, wanted all the knowledge offered to him no matter how negative. Neither of them cared for sugar coated lies or falsehoods designed to shelter them, John would prefer the truth any day, no matter how devastating. So Sherlock wouldn’t fabricate something to appease him, doing that would be an insult to John’s intelligence.

  
But just because John wanted to know and likely could handle it, didn’t mean that he _should_ know or that _Sherlock_ could handle it _._

  
“I don’t want to know or you don’t want to tell me?” John growls in frustration. Clever John.

  
“Both are applicable.”

  
John throws his arms into the air in disbelief, but he still makes Sherlock tea.

  
Hours later John still looked bothered and he’s looked that way constantly of late. Sherlock doesn’t know how to remove that burden and wipe that defeated sorrow from his friends face for good.

  
“I’m fine,” he offers, but it doesn’t seem to help much.

  
“I’m sure you are.” And although it’s a blatant lie, it’s not unkind.

  
He should probably let John know how much he appreciates him, or something, he doesn’t tell him often enough, it’s possible that he never has at all.

  
John has taken too much abuse from Sherlock that he hasn’t deserved, he just happened to always be the closest target for Sherlock to lash out at when things were too much. He felt unstable more and more often these days.

  
None of this is John’s fault.

  
He should say a lot of things, but he doesn’t know where to start.

   
~

  
“ _SHERLOCK!”_  


John’s panicked screams rip through the air as he dashes down the hall and bursts into the bathroom, splintering the wood around the lock.

  
A bit of an overreaction.

  
Sherlock looks up from the sink and stares at him like he’s lost the plot completely before calmly continuing to tend to his bloodied fists.

  
John had been out somewhere so he’d missed all the action.

  
He hadn’t seen Sherlock’s face crumple in despair as his arm weakens and the bow nearly slips from his grasp with a screech. He’d been in the middle of the section that had been giving him problems, and his body’s failings had allowed the entire composition to evaporate. He hadn’t finished it, nothing was set in stone so it’s gone for good, he’ll never be able to recreate it perfectly and days of laborious work had been wasted. It was going to be one of his better accomplishments, even incomplete he could already tell.

  
John hadn’t watched as Sherlock studiously cleaned the instrument and rosined the bow, and placed it in its case with loving care, his movements exaggeratedly controlled. He did not see him tuck the case carefully out of the way to protect it from any possible eventuality.

  
John hadn’t seen him stop and take a moment with his head bowed, the thin façade of calm cracking. If moments like these were the cracks in the veneer, then this was a looming chasm.

  
He hadn’t seen Sherlock walk into the kitchen, wracking his brain, searching for anything that could calm him, ward off the overwhelming grief that was threatening to consume the world’s only consulting detective.

  
There was nothing.

  
John hadn’t seen Sherlock’s resolve break. He hadn’t seen him smash, rip, and wreck, tear, crush and destroy everything in his path.

  
John hadn’t seen wood splinter, glass shatter, books fly, his chair being shoved with all his strength across the room where it clattered with Sherlock’s own. He’d missed watching the kitchen table being upended.

  
John had certainly seen the aftermath though; he’d seen the blood on the damaged kitchen tiles from Sherlock’s knuckles, and the blood on the linoleum and carpet from bare feet run over broken glass, unfeeling.

  
He’d presumably surveyed their flat in horror, at the sheer amount of damage inflicted, cupboard doors had been ripped off their hinges, the union jack pillow torn open, there was a dent in the fridge, the telly was a write off, electricity occasionally sparking through what was left of the microwave, the skull had been knocked to the floor by a projectile of some kind and was missing a few teeth, the music stand had actually been bent almost completely in half, and was on the sofa.

  
He’d seen a lot of Sherlock’s blood, and what he’d left in his wake but he hadn’t seen the man himself, until he’d heard movement in the bathroom apparently.

  
Sherlock cleaned the blood from his knuckles mechanically and wrapped them up, it was bad and a few of them were broken (it felt like all of them but he estimated 3 at most) but his feet had been worse.

  
He actually did feel a bit better, even if he was horrified at what he’d done, as he stared down at his hands. There had been a cathartic feel to the carnage he’d inflicted.

  
John hadn’t said anything and Sherlock didn’t look at him as he drained the water and cleaned up.

  
“Sorry about the mess, I’ll clean that up (he’d probably have Mycroft take care of it), and Mrs Hudson can take it out of my side of the rent,” He was nonchalant, he was bottling it all up again and chaining it down, trying not to think about the implications of having had what could quite possibly qualify as a mental breakdown. He’d just undone months of progress.

  
There was no way John would let this one slide.

  
He was met with silence, though he could feel John still standing in the doorway behind him, and he’d run out of things to do to avoid facing him, so he turned around.

  
When he saw John’s face it dawned on him, he’d taken off his shirt. It had gotten blood on it and he hadn’t been seeing things with a great deal of clarity so his mistake hadn’t occurred to him. The door _had_ been locked.

  
Whatever pain he had been feeling, John was suffering almost as much by watching him struggle on his own on a daily basis, and now after everything that had happened today; seeing Sherlock’s back, the scars, was too much for John. They were disturbing enough on their own.

  
He swears to himself that he’ll let John help, that they’ll deal with it together, as John crushes him in a hug and cries; heaving terrible heart-wrenching sobs into Sherlock’s skin; _‘I love you, I love you,’_ as Sherlock holds him; absolutely gutted.

  
He’s seen that look on John’s face before, on the pavement outside St Barts as he lay in his own (frozen) blood. The look on his face as John’s legs gave out from under him and Sherlock’s soldier crumpled to the ground like a rag doll, the same look had adorned his best friend’s face as he burst into the bathroom, and he had suddenly known what John had been thinking, what John had assumed. John thought he had been about to witness his best friend’s suicide for the second time.

  
He promised both himself and John that he would never give John cause to use that expression again as long as he drew breath.

 

 


End file.
